Pocket Watch
by ReaderMagnifique
Summary: When Sherlock experiences the loss of someone very dear to him, John Watson does his utmost to pick up the pieces.


I must say, first and foremost, that I am not a Johnlock shipper. Anyone who has read my previous Sherlock story can see that. I can see it in many ways, and I enjoy some of the artwork and fics that come my way on Tumblr from time to time, but it's just not my cup of tea. I am primarily an Adlock fan. Sorry. However, if you're a fan of Merlin, Kingsman, or maybe Supernatural, I do plan to (eventually) get around to writing some heartfelt Destiel, Hartwin and Merthur.

This was written as a favour to a girl who was once my friend. She is the biggest Johnlock shipper I know, and this was a present to her a year back. She enjoyed it, and I hope others will too.

* * *

John came home to 221B, to find Mycroft leaving. He sighed, knowing exactly what kind of mood Sherlock would be in. As he moved aside to let Mycroft down the stairs, however, he was surprised to see that the man kept his eyes fixed on the floor below him. As he stepped past, Mycroft's eyes darted up to meet John's, and just as quickly they flickered back to the steps beneath his feet. He left quietly, the door clicking shut softly behind him. John stared after him for a moment, brow furrowed in confusion, before proceeding up the stairs to find Sherlock.

As he entered the sitting room, he came across a sight that was so abnormal it made him stop in his tracks. Sherlock sat in his chair, staring at his violin in his lap, not playing it as he normally would after a Mycroft episode. He didn't move, didn't acknowledge that the short, blond man had even entered the building. This, of course was not exactly unusual, but still something seemed... off.

"Sherlock?" Asked John quietly. There was no answer. "Sherlock, is something wrong?" Still nothing. John sighed. "I'm going to make some tea. Want any?" Nothing.

Pushing his hand through his short hair, John set about making himself and Sherlock some tea. He set Sherlock's spotted mug on the desk to Sherlock's left, then sat down on the sofa with his laptop.

An hour later, he looked up from his blog to realise that Sherlock still hadn't moved. Now more than a little worried, he set his laptop aside.

"Sherlock." Nothing. "Sherlock, what's the matter." Still no reply. "Hmm?" Silence. John sighed, and got up, seating himself across from the dark-haired man. "Sherlock, there is something upsetting you. Please, tell me. I might be able to help–"

"You can't help." Murmured Sherlock.

"And why's that?"

"It's not something you can fix."

"Tell me what it is at least."

"No."

"Why not? There must be something I can do."

"There's nothing."

"You sure?" Sherlock blinked and nodded. And that's when John realised.

"Sherlock, are you... are you crying?" The consulting detective shook his head quickly. John was reminded of a small child, so innocent was the movement. "You are. You are crying. Tell me what the matter is."

"He's dead." Silence reigned for a long moment.

"What? Who? Who's dead?"

"Robert Catton. My godfather."

"Oh Sherlock. I'm so sorry." Sherlock moved as if to reply, and suddenly let out a loud sob. Startled, John got up and moved over to the wiry man, shifting him over on the wide leather chair to leave enough room for him to squeeze on. He pulled him into his arms and cradled his head against his chest, letting him cry almost hysterically as he broke down against him.

* * *

Half an hour later, Sherlock had exhausted himself against one of John's favourite jumpers – oddly enough, John didn't really mind this – and had fallen asleep curled up against the army doctor. John knew that if he let him sleep in his chair - as he would probably want, being the awkward sod he is – he'd end up with a nasty crick in his neck, and a sore back. Being as gentle as he possibly could be, he cradled the dark haired man close to him, and picked him up, carrying him to bed.

Gently, so as not to disturb him, he laid him down on the mattress, and carefully folded the sheets over his still form. As he turned to leave, however, Sherlock, hand shot out, and grabbed at his lower arm. John whipped back around to see Sherlock staring up at him, looking more lost and alone than John had ever seen him.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I tried not to wake you. I just didn't–"

"Stay." There was a pause.

"What?"

"Please stay. I don't want to be left alone." John looked at Sherlock for a moment, before nodding slightly, and sliding under the cover of the duvet, wrapping Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock clung to him like a new born. This vulnerability that Sherlock was showing was new, and almost disturbing. John had never seen the man break down so much. Not after the incident at Baskerville with the H.O.U.N.D. chemicals. Not when he was desperate for a fix after going clean. John wanted to be able to say something, anything, to make things better for him. But no matter how hard he tried, there was nothing he could think of to say, nothing that seemed good enough to comfort him. So they lay together in silence.

* * *

John awoke sometime in the middle of the night to find himself draped around Sherlock's still sleeping form, one arm slung around his waist, his face buried in the back of his neck. The ends of his dark curls tickled his nose slightly but, oddly, it didn't bother him much. At some point Sherlock had managed to twist himself around in John's arms and they were now spooning, Sherlock's lanky frame engulfed by John's. The next thing he knew, it was morning, and the bed was empty. Befuddled, he crawled out from under the sheets, and padded down the hall to the door of the living room. Sherlock was stood at the window, gazing out onto the roofs opposite, seemingly oblivious to John's presence. In his right hand, he clutched the handle of his violin like a child might grip the arm of their favourite teddy.

"He got me my first violin, you know." He said. There was a pause, in which John didn't dare to say anything, worried he would stop Sherlock from opening up. "Mum always wanted me to learn the Trombone, and my Dad was always determined to get me to play the drums. Both were ridiculously dull. But Uncle Bobby came to me on my fifth birthday with this second hand, battered violin." Sherlock's lips quirked upward in a half smile, only for a second, but it was there. "He always knew exactly what I really wanted, even when I didn't know it myself. Mycroft broke it eventually, in a fit of spite, and I've had many violins since. But I still have that first one, still in pieces in its box." There was silence for a moment, and then Sherlock brought the violin to his chin, and began to play. The conversation was over, and he hadn't looked at John once.

* * *

The funeral was a quiet affair. Sherlock's mother cried into her Husband's arms, while he softly stroked her arm, silent tears never allowed to leave his eyes and crawl down his cheeks. Mycroft stood beside them, solemn and silent. Sherlock himself stood with John, apart from his family. It seemed it would be too cloistering to be near his parents and their raging emotions now. Not when he had his own to struggle through. As the coffin of his godfather was hidden from view in the crematorium by the thick purple curtain, Sherlock reached his hand over, and laced his fingers through John's. John was sure he only wanted comfort, but that didn't stop the odd feeling in his stomach as he gripped his hand tight. At the wake, Mycroft approached Sherlock quietly.

"The will reading is in two days, and you have been told to attend." Sherlock nodded curtly, and Mycroft moved away without another word.

* * *

Two days later Sherlock, with much persuasion, attended the reading of his Godfather's will. John came with him. The Lawyer went through the monotonous legal procedures that accompany these things, and then it came to the various belongings of the man that was Robert Catton. There were a few various trinkets and amounts of money given out to various people and close relatives, and then it came down to the two brothers.

"To Mycroft, I leave a trust of £20,000, and my house, in the hopes he will use it as a safe house for various secret service men, or whoever is in need of a safe house at this moment in time, and indeed, the future. Mycroft, I am well aware you have no need of this money, and it will do little in the scheme of things, but do something useful. And don't give it to any of your bumbling politician friends to muck about with." John smirked. He may have never met the man, but from the sounds of it, he was someone he would have liked to know.

"To Sherlock, I leave a trust of £30,000, because I expect you need it more than those I have paid taxes to my entire working life as it is. And you'll probably put it to better use. I also leave to you my pocket watch. I would say why, but I expect you already know. I won't write any lumbering sentences, because I know you don't do sentiment in public at least. But I do leave you a letter, for your eyes only. May you read it, or not, in private, or in the company of another. I wouldn't mind either way."

* * *

Sherlock was silent in the cab home, and John didn't want to disturb him. Upon entering the flat, John made to make his excuses and leave Sherlock alone with his letter. But Sherlock stopped him.

"I know you're leaving me to open my letter alone, so don't." John paused at the door.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Sherlock was silent for a moment.

"Not without you." His voice cracked a little, but other than that, he stayed resolute, looking at a small tea stain on the carpet. John smiled a small half smile, and walked slowly around to set himself down on the sofa next to him, putting a comforting hand on Sherlock's knee, which Sherlock didn't shy away from. Sherlock slowly opened the letter, and read through it. His face seemed to remain impassive, but John was close enough to see his crystal eyes well up with unshed tears. After a long moment of quiet, Sherlock folded the paper up, and placed it on the table next to him. He scratched the back of his head, and said nothing.

"Do you want to tell me about it over a cup of tea?" Sherlock nodded. John made two large mugs of steaming tea, and brought a pack of digestives that Mrs Hudson had attempted to hide from them. He'd buy her another pack later. Desperate times.

"What did it say? And you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No. I... I do. He... he talked about when I was a child. I used to play with that pocket watch, and he always said one day I could have it. He used to say, "A smart watch, for a smart man". It used to make me so proud of myself, my intelligence. It was good if I saw him after school, where they hated me for the same reason. When he said that, it made me see that whatever they thought didn't matter, so long as I didn't let him down."

"Oh Sherlock."

"Wait. There's more." He paused, seeming to gather his courage to say what he needed to say next. "He said in his letter that... that he didn't mind."

"Didn't mind what?"

"That I was gay." He spoke hurriedly, as if trying to brush over what he had just admitted. "And he said that he didn't care, and it was perfectly normal, and I shouldn't hide it, and my parents aren't the sort of people – well, he said riff raff – who would care either, so I suppose, what I'm saying is that this is me. Not hiding it, I mean."

"Sherlock, you're gay?"

"It wasn't something I really acknowledged. Not for a long time. Until..."

"Until what?"

"Until I fell in love with you." There was a long silence.

"Say something." John gave a small smile.

"What would you like me to say?"

"I don't know. Something nice, I suppose. The probability of you feeling the same way is next to nothing, but–"

"No it's not."

"... What?"

"The probability of me feeling the same way is nowhere near nothing." There was a pause. "In fact, the probability of me feeling the same is pretty damn high." Sherlock sat, dumbstruck. John chuckled softly. "You see right through everyone and everything in seconds, and yet you're spectacularly ignorant about some things." And with that, he cupped his palm around the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulled him in for a searing kiss.

Sherlock was stunned. John tasted of chocolate and tea, something he hadn't imagined in any of his fantasies, and yet it was mind-numbingly delicious, and so very... John. His palm fit perfectly on the nape of his neck, and when he softly dragged his teeth over Sherlock's lower lip, he couldn't contain himself. He deepened the kiss to an almost animalistic level, both of them moving without needing to break this kiss to kneeling up on the sofa. Sherlock's long fingers gripped John's jumper as if he could rip it from his strong torso, pulling him closer. John ran a hand through Sherlock's unruly curls. They broke apart suddenly, gasping for air.

"You quoted yourself wrong." Panted Sherlock.

"So sorry, I was a little preoccupied with your fucking mouth."

"How about I do something else with my 'fucking' mouth."

"That sounds incredible."

"Dinner?"

"Starving!"


End file.
